


Too Little, Too Late

by Severina



Series: The Condemnedverse [6]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tamingthemuse, Post Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 08:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/404138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows it's fucking ridiculous but it feels like everything that's happened up 'til now – comin' home from a hunt to find the world gone to shit, Merle's old lady stumbling down the dirt path moaning with her arm ripped up to hell, the mad dash to the reservoir, findin' the other survivors, losin' Merle – all of it led him here, to this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Little, Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's tamingthemuse community, for the prompt "a decade late and a penny short." Part Six of _the condemnedverse_ series. Post Season Two.
> 
> * * *

The stone rattles to a stop at the edge of his boot, and he stares at it dumbly.

He's dimly aware of the sun beating down on the back of his neck, dampening his hair. His vision doubles and he tells himself it's the heat, blinks away the sweat dripping into his eyes. His entire body feels like a bow string, taut and ready to let fly, and he grits his teeth and curls the fingers of his right hand into his palm, lets the sharp press of nails into his skin ground him.

When Glenn touches him, he lurches back, lifts his head to shoot the kid a glare. 

_I ain't no queer_ is on the tip of his tongue, a reflexive reaction, and he bites down on it. Remembers all the men that he dared not talk to, all the magazines that he gazed at on wire racks and could never touch, all the snarling comments about butt-pirates and ass-jockeys that dripped like venom from Merle's lips. 

Remembers seeing some college kid standing outside the roadhouse, tight jeans and styled hair, perfect lips. And maybe he looked a little too long, maybe Merle saw something in his eyes. Because he remembers Merle's fist swinging three, four, five times before the surprise of the attack gets through his muddled brain and he jumps in to pull his brother away, the kid shocked and dazed on the sidewalk, bruises already staining his pale face, lips smashed and bleeding, broken. Remembers dragging Merle away, the way Merle staggered against him, pushed him against the truck and god, remembers closing his eyes when Merle raised his fist against him, waiting for the blow to fall. 

Glenn's eyes are wide and dark, his fingertips cool where they press against his forearm. When Glenn blinks and moves just a tiny bit closer, it's like everything shifts into sharp relief. He can feel the jagged edges of the gravel stones biting into his palm, the trickle of sweat creeping down his back. The shuffling steps of the walkers below and their occasional snarling moans seem louder, the calling of the birds in the distant trees more strident. 

Glenn's lips are chapped, and when the kid's tongue darts out to lick at them Daryl finds his eyes drawn sharply to the movement, his body leaning in of its own accord. He feels his shoulders relax just a little and then Glenn lets out a soft breath, leans toward him too, and he knows it's fucking ridiculous but it feels like everything that's happened up 'til now – comin' home from a hunt to find the world gone to shit, Merle's old lady stumbling down the dirt path moaning with her arm ripped up to hell, the mad dash to the reservoir, findin' the other survivors, losin' Merle – all of it led him here, to this. To Glenn.

"Daryl," Glenn murmurs.

Daryl's head jerks up. "Shut up," he says.

Glenn blinks. "I—"

"I said _shut up_ ," Daryl hisses. He edges carefully away, peers up over the ledge of the roof. The bird calls he taught the group ain't too difficult, but nobody besides Shane ever really got the hang of 'em. Grimes's grackle call sounds more like a goddamn moose, but he guesses that just makes it stand out all the more. His eyes narrow as he scans the horizon, finally spots Rick popping his head up from behind a red Subaru on the distant interstate. He lifts a hand in greeting, notes when Rick points out his location to the others.

"Cavalry," he says over his shoulder.

"Wow. Awesome timing, Rick," he hears the kid mutter behind him. "Really. _Stellar_."

* * *

With their people moving in from the rear, Daryl's finally able to make use of the arrows that Glenn hauled up onto the roof without his shots being a waste of fucking time. When the dust clears, there's a shitload of dead walkers surrounding the back door, and Daryl's able to yell down and warn the others about the rest of the undead fuckers still locked in the store. He leans over to watch Hershel cover T-Dog, hears the grunts and muffled pistol shots from inside before Rick shouts back with the all clear.

When he and Glenn drop from the shaky drainpipe onto the cracked asphalt, he scans the treeline before grasping Rick's hand and nodding in thanks, then immediately starts gathering his arrows. Keeps his back to the kid, concentrates on tuggin' the valuable bolts out of dead flesh, makes sure all the festering bastards are not gettin' up again.

"Chocolate," he hears Rick telling Glenn grimly, "isn't worth this, Glenn."

"No," T-Dog calls out, "but maybe _this_ is."

Daryl straightens as Hershel and T come out of the back of the store, eyes wide in gleeful shock, and that's when Maggie appears out of nowhere… or maybe he just didn't want to see her, before, out on the periphery of the action, keeping a close eye on Beth and Carol as the walkers fell. He only knows that now that the coast is clear she is running across the parking lot and falling into Glenn's arms, and pressing her palms to the side of his face, murmuring quiet words, their bodies so close that you couldn't wedge a goddamn penny between them. 

Or a stone.

He turns away again, spits onto the pavement. Can't help side-glancing the two of them anyway, seeing the way they fit. 

He remembers that night with Merle, the way the truck door handle dug into his spine, the whiskey and sweat stench of his brother. The kid on the pavement trying to stifle his moans, the shouts from the bar as people spewed outside to see what the ruckus was about. Remembers thinking how wrong it was, the whole damn thing, messed up and fucked up, twisting his insides, making him sick.

He avoids Glenn's gaze when the kid's eyes dart his way, squares his shoulders and stares down the road.

Maybe this is what he gets, for years of letting Merle run roughshod over him. For letting Merle lower his fist and sling an arm over his shoulder that night, laugh and draw him away from a boy lying bleeding on the sidewalk, some boy who only had the gall to like other boys.

Maybe this is what he deserves.


End file.
